


The Devil May Care

by johnsarmylady



Series: The Devil and Sherlock Holmes [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-29
Updated: 2013-05-29
Packaged: 2017-12-13 09:19:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/822649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnsarmylady/pseuds/johnsarmylady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when a fallen angel cannot bear the pain of his actions?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Devil May Care

By the time Greg reached the Baker Street flat he had almost convinced himself that Sherlock had been mistaken, and that John had simply gone for a walk to clear his head. He let himself in with the key John had given him, and moved quietly up the stairs.

He found Sherlock, now dressed in pyjamas and robe, sitting in John’s chair, his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms wrapped tightly around his legs.  He stared, unblinking, at the window.

Greg looked around briefly; half hoping to see Mrs Hudson despite the ridiculously early hour, but the flat was dark and empty.

“I’ve not told her – I can’t tell her,” Sherlock sounded lost. “I don’t know what to do.”

In that moment Greg learned the depth of feeling these two men had for each other.  The desolation he saw in his young friend’s face broke his heart, and he cursed the day James Moriarty had set his sights on the destruction of Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock turned his attention back to the window, leaving Greg to stand feeling helpless in the middle of the room. With a sigh he moved to the kitchen, feeling a little like an interloper as he set about making tea for them both, taking over the role that John had so happily stepped into when he first moved into the flat.

With the tea made, he sat down in the leather armchair and pressed a cup of the hot sweet liquid into the younger man’s hands.

“Are you sure he hasn’t just gone for a walk?”

“None of his clothes are gone…”

“What?  You mean he’s wandering around out there stark bollock naked?”

“No-one will see him,” came the whispered response.

O*O*O

_3 Hours earlier_

John awoke to a searing pain in his head, and his hand clenched in the bedclothes as his muscles went into spasm.  He had to leave their bed before he woke the man sleeping peacefully beside him. By the time he had closed the bedroom door the physical manifestation of his emotional pain brought him, literally, to his knees.

Crawling up the stairs he knew he must leave.  The window that Moran had entered through was still open, the fingerprint powder still sparkling, silvery in the moonlight.  Being careful not to disturb the crime scene he all but fell out of the window, landing awkwardly in Mrs Hudson’s garden directly below.  Gritting his teeth against the screaming agony behind his eyes, he pulled himself to his feet and with one last glance towards the window of the room he shared with Sherlock he ran, leaving the Baker Street flat, and his lover, behind him.

O*O*O

In frustration Lestrade searched the flat, confirming for himself that the clothing John had been wearing earlier was, with Sherlock’s clothing, still on the floor of the bathroom, and that his old army kit bag was still packed neatly and shoved at the back of the wardrobe.  He noted the open window in the upstairs bedroom, but a glance out showed him nothing, he was too far from the ground to see anything helpful.

Back in the living room Sherlock hadn’t moved, he just stared at the window. 

“Why, Sherlock?  Why would he do this? I mean, I get that he hated hurting people…”

“No, it was more than that. It was the question Greg; it’s all to do with the question.”

Greg frowned, and Sherlock rolled his eyes in imitation of his old self.

“He told us, it started with a question.  He was asked who he loved more, God or man.”

“What?”

“He told me. They, he and his friends, fell because they love humans too much. His nightmares were nothing to do with PTSD, but that was a convenient cover.” He almost smiled at the confusion on the older man’s face. “His nightmares were the result of justified killing, where there was no option.”

“And the killing of…how many did you kill?  Of the fifteen?”

“With Moran?  Eight. But that’s not the point.” Sherlock closed his eyes and ordered his thoughts. “In Afghanistan, the lives taken were balanced, even outweighed, by the lives saved. Not just those soldiers and civilians no longer at risk, but the ones he saved on the operating table, in the field hospitals, or on the battlefield.”

“So what was different this time?” Greg struggled to understand.

Sherlock sprung to his feet and strode across to the fireplace, staring down at the empty grate.

“The ratio – eight deaths to save three lives, four if you count me – it’s disproportionate.” Raising his head he looked Greg in the eye. “Each kill after the first four caused him so much pain, by the time we caught the last one in Georgia it would almost incapacitate him as the life left them.”

“But that didn’t happen with Moran.”

“No, the darkness happened.”

“You saw that too?  I thought it was my mind playing tricks.”

“I’ve never seen that before, Greg.”

Lestrade picked up their empty cups and carried them through to the kitchen, switching the kettle on to make more tea.

“Well, I gotta say, the whole evening was bloody weird.  That whole feeling thing….Wait a minute!  You said he often spoke to you, touched you when he wasn’t even in the same room.”

Flinging himself full length on the couch, the young man looked sadder than ever as his eyes seemed to look back over the time he spent with his friend, his lover.

“I was never alone.”

“That’s just it!” suddenly Greg was beside the couch, leaning over and staring into Sherlock’s face. “Are you alone now? Can you feel him?”

Sherlock’s eyes went wide. Unconsciously he pressed a hand to his chest, his lips moving, soundlessly calling John’s name.  Greg backed off and watched the thoughts racing across the other man’s face.

Drawing in a deep breath, Sherlock sat up.

_“John.”_

“Is he there? Sherlock, can you feel him?”

Nodding, a look of bemused wonder on his face, Sherlock stood and dashed towards the bedroom.

“I need to find him”

O*O*O

An hour later, standing at the junction of Euston Road and Midland Road Sherlock stared around, slowly studying the buildings.  Gripped tightly in his left hand was a scruffy black backpack, a reminder of their travels around Europe.

Beside him, Lestrade had a million questions he wanted to ask, but he held his peace. Instinct had brought them this far, based on the smudges of muddy footprints that led from Mrs Hudson’s garden.  His suggestion that maybe John would have gone through Regents Park earned him a sneer, then a grudging explanation – wherever John was headed, he would have taken the shortest route.  His pain would have made it imperative that he get to a safe haven as quickly as possible.  Now as he watched Sherlock’s eyes narrow, he wondered – not for the first time – what was going through his mind.

“Safe haven.”

“What?”

“Lestrade, if you were an angel, where would you consider to be a safe haven?” Sherlock stared along Midland Road as he asked the question, and Greg followed his line of sight. 

Seeing the square tower in the distance, he turned to Sherlock, and saw that the young man was already looking at him expectantly.

“A church?”

“Not just a church,” the consulting detective explained, slinging the backpack on one shoulder and striding towards the grey stone building.  “But a Victorian church built on one of the oldest sites of Christian worship.”

At first Greg had to almost run to keep up with Sherlock, but as they approached the gates of St Pancras Old Church their footsteps slowed, until they came to a halt just outside the hallowed church grounds.

“John.” Sherlock was unaware he had spoken aloud; his mind was leading him on, through the gates in through the large wooden doors and straight to the entrance to the old, disused crypt.

Hanging back slightly, Greg let the younger man lead the way, part of him feared John’s reaction but it was obvious that Sherlock had no fear at all; his whole being was concentrating on finding the ex-army doctor.

They heard him before they saw him – the sounds of his distress loud in the heavy silence.  John lay, naked and dirty curled in a ball on his side, in the darkest corner of the crypt.  Slowly crossing the room, Sherlock sunk down onto his knees beside him.

“John.”

John just sobbed louder, his head buried in his arms. Reaching out one slender hand Sherlock stroked the soft blond hair.

“John I’m sorry, this is all my fault.”

Tear-washed blue eyes looked up into sad grey ones.  Pushing himself up John stretched out his arm, his trembling hand tenderly cupping Sherlock’s pale cheek. He shook his head, denying his lover’s words.

“The choice was mine, and mine alone.” He whispered. “God knows I’d do it all again to save you ‘Lock, but it hurts! Dear God how it hurts!”

With an inarticulate cry Sherlock pulled the smaller man into his arms, holding him tenderly, stroking the hair away from his face.

“But it wasn’t just me you saved, or Lestrade, or even Mrs Hudson!” Dropping a soft kiss on John’s temple he tightened his hold.  “They would have picked up where Moriarty left off – you saved all the people that they would have killed.”

Hope shone momentarily on the tearstained face, and Greg could see him struggling to believe Sherlock’s words.  He looked on with pride as the self-proclaimed sociopath pulled from his backpack some clothes for the man in his arms.

Sherlock smiled down at his lover.

“Come home.”

 

 


End file.
